


For All The Places I Have Been (I'm No Place Without You)

by heartofcathedrals, slowdownsugar



Category: Jonas Brothers
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Brothers, Chronic Illness, Diabetes, Divorce, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, type one diabetes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-01-15 06:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18493690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofcathedrals/pseuds/heartofcathedrals, https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowdownsugar/pseuds/slowdownsugar
Summary: “If I answer that phone, it’s to ask for a divorce,” Nick grumbles, and Joe feels better knowing that Nick’s humor is coming back. It means his sugar’s probably coming up.“Not funny, Nick,” Kevin throws in.“I don’t want to talk to her anyway. She was...pissed at me all night...over my Dex alarms going off.”Joe’s eyebrows knit. “Jesus Christ, seriously?”“Yup. Slept in the guest room just to shut her up.”“Give me the damn phone,” Joe orders.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, sometimes fandom brings people together and they start writing a fic. This is the result of that magic. Disclaimer that we don't know anyone and, as usual, if you got here by Googling yourself, abort mission. Please leave kudos and comments!
> 
> TW: Divorce in later chapters.

Nick pulls his headphones down around his neck and rubs his face. Seven hours in the studio and he still can’t get his vocals for even one song right. It’s not like him, and he knows Ryan is at the controls, can hear him asking for another take. He can feel Joe hovering in the booth, hears him pull his own headphones off and shuffle over. And normally? He's good with Joe being in his airspace, in his head, like a familiar second skin.

But right now, he can feel sweat rolling down his back, knows that his hands are shaking from a low. He was still running high an hour ago, and he’s silenced his Dexcom alarms because he’s been riding a blood sugar rollercoaster since 3am and he doesn’t need Dex to remind him again that he’s out of range. He thinks back to Priyanka grumbling as his alarms continued to go off in the dark, Nick fumbling for the lamp for the umpteenth time, finally giving up on staying in the bedroom and resigning himself to the guest room because she hates it when the alarms are sounding and he didn’t want to hear her complaining anymore. She’s been texting him all day, pestering him about a new vacation house in Corsica, and Nick’s already okayed it because he doesn’t want to actually deal with it, but she just keeps obsessing like she always does and it’s fucking annoying.

"You need to back off. Just. Please, Joe. Back off, or its gonna be another argument and...I do not need this shit right now." He’s pressing his fingertips to his closed eyelids because his head is pounding. He needs sugar, a soda or juice, but his thoughts are racing and he just really wishes his diabetes wasn’t owning him today.

“Nick, you okay?” Kevin asks. “You look-”

“I know how I fucking look, Kev.”

“Nick,” Joe starts, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You need-”

“Joseph, don’t,” Nick interrupts, pulling away.

Kevin has spent his his whole life playing buffer to his brothers, but there's something fragile going on now. It’s been like this since Nick’s wedding and the reunion. He’s afraid to breathe wrong for fear that the whole house of Jonas cards might fall. He knows that things aren’t all good at home with Priyanka and that Nick’s trying to write it off, but he can see that he’s having a shit diabetes day, that he’s pushing even Joe away, and it’s breaking his heart.

Nick’s phone starts vibrating in his back packet. He’s allowed to have it in the booth because of his Dexcom app, but it’s been going off all day, because of _her_ , and Nick can’t take it anymore. He chucks it across the room, the device clanking as it hits the wall and falls to the carpet. His head is spinning, his balance wavering as he tries to reach something to keep him upright. A mic, a stand. But there’s nothing but Joe’s hands around his waist as he helps him to the floor.

“Kevin, I need soda or juice. And-”

“A straw, I know,” Kevin adds, rushing out of the room.

“Go away!” Nick is yelling, _slurring_. He’s throwing his arms up to push Joe away, but Joe knows better. He knows how combative Nick gets when his levels are off, and he knows he needed sugar five minutes ago. Joe pulls Nick’s headphones off, and then his own.

“JT, can you grab me his kit? I need to test him. And Garbo? Can you grab his phone? See what his Dex app says?” Joe can feel the shaking in Nick’s whole body now, and the way he’s giving in as he leans against Joe and grabs his arm concerns him. “Hang in there, Nicky. I’ve got you.”

“Feel sick,” Nick mumbles, and Joe brushes his hair out of his paling face.

“I know. Kev’s getting you some soda. We’re gonna get you back up, okay?” Joe soothes as he goes for Nick’s pump and pauses the insulin delivery system. JT enters with his kit and Joe goes through the motions of pricking Nick’s finger and waiting for the screen on the glucometer to blink back a number. “38. Jesus, Nick. Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t Dex alert?” He prays they don’t have to use the glucagon, knows that Nick hates how it makes him throw up for hours after.

“I turned off...the alarms. They were going off...all night.”

Joe sighs and pulls a tube of glucose gel from the kit and rips it open. “I need you to eat this, Nicky,” he says softly, guiding the tube past Nick’s lips.

“Dex says 45 with double down arrows,” Garbo replies, worry etched in his face. He’s not a diabetes pro, but he knows the situation isn’t good. He’s been around long enough to know.

Joe pushes the glucose in the tube toward Nick’s mouth, can see that he’s trying to fight it, but Joe doesn’t have a choice, just keeps at it until it’s nearly empty. Nick’s head is covered in sweat now, and Joe’s sure he can feel the waves of nausea rolling through Nick’s body. He grabs the small wastebasket in the corner and holds it under his mouth with one hand while the other holds his body up.

“Gonna...be sick,” Nick mumbles, hand fumbling for the edge of the wastebasket.

Nick’s phone is vibrating again, the sound permeating the silence in the small room. “Screen is cracked. There’s a bunch of missed calls,” Garbo says. “Should I pick it up? It’s-”

“No!” Nick and Joe yell at the same time, Nick’s voice arguably weaker. Joe hears Nick sniffling, panting as he tries not to be sick over the basket.

Kevin enters, popping the soda can in his hand before adding the sraw. “How bad is it?”

“45 with double down arrows,” Garbo repeats, and Kevin’s eyes go wide as he kneels beside Nick and puts the straw to his lips.

“I can’t,” Nick says, turning his head away. A tear rolls down his cheek and he goes to wipe it away, but he’s still weak, can barely get his arm up.

“You’ve gotta, hun,” Joe coos, rubbing Nick’s back. “How about we get you on the couch? Make you comfortable?” Nick nods his head.

Together, Joe and JT lift Nick and bring him out of the booth, situating him on the couch in the control room with the basket as Kevin tries to get Nick to drink the soda. Garbo puts the phone next to Nick on the couch because texts are pouring in and he feels like it isn’t his place to keep looking down at them.

Joe looks at Kevin and says, “I got some glucose gel in him, so I’m hoping we avoided the glucagon. Might be why he won’t take the soda.”

The screen on Nick’s phone lights up again and vibrates. “Are you gonna answer that?” JT asks.

“If I answer that phone, it’s to ask for a divorce,” Nick grumbles, and Joe feels better knowing that Nick’s humor is coming back. It means his sugar’s probably coming up.

“Not funny, Nick,” Kevin throws in.

“I don’t want to talk to her anyway. She was...pissed at me all night...over my Dex alarms going off.”

Joe’s eyebrows knit. “Jesus Christ, seriously?”

“Yup. Slept in the guest room just to shut her up.”

“Give me the damn phone,” Joe orders, because what the fuck Priyanka?

“No, absolutely not,” Nick replies, pulling the phone away before Joe can grab it.

“Nicholas, give me the fucking phone,” Joe warns in his big brother stern voice that he rarely ever uses with him. He's not dicking around, though, and Nick knows, Joe grabbing it from his hands because he’s still weak, nearly cutting his thumb trying to open the call.

His voice has an edge as sharp as a fucking knife. "Can I help you right now? We're kind of in the middle of an emergency, which apparently you knew about and didn't give a shit about, so, kindly quit calling. He'll see you at home." He hangs up, pleased with himself.

“You have no idea...what you just did,” Nick says with a groan, Kevin putting the straw to his lips again.

“She should have been up with you,” Joe explains, pricking Nick’s finger again and sighing before reading, “42. How much insulin did you bolus at lunch, man?”

“I was in the 300s, so I tried to cover what I could, but it’s doing...what it wants...so it doesn’t even...” he trails, his head spinning again. He takes a deep breath, trying to quell the nausea. “Doesn’t even matter.”

“Did you check for ketones?” Kevin asks.

“No.” Nick takes a long sip of soda and licks his lips. “God, Joe, you have no idea what you just did."

"Actually, I fucking do. And she's lucky I didn't come find her. I have a spare key you know."

"Joe,” Nick warns.

"Nick. It's not a fucking joke. This is bullshit."

"You think I don’t fucking know that? Months into it and it’s already...gone to shit. I was only half joking about divorce." Kevin and Joe look share a look, an unspoken conversation taking place.

Nick feels his stomach lurch, the amount of sugar he’s just ingested overwhelming his system. It’s always like this with stubborn lows. He’s going to puke, probably needs to check for ketones because dammit this rollercoaster is the biggest sign that there is that something isn’t right, but he doesn’t want to admit it. Not right now. Not in front of his brothers, his band, his team. He’s always got it all together. _Always_. Except for right now. Before he can stop himself, he empties his stomach into the basket, the carbonation from the soda burning as it comes up.

“It’s okay,” Joe says, holding Nick’s head up as he lets it all out. Nick lets out a small sob as he starts to retch again, trying desperately to shake the tears away before they can fall. He’s done everything right, followed all of the rules, every single freaking intricate rule from his care team, but his body is still playing games, and he’s not sure he can hold his frustration in for much longer.

"Stop looking at me like that,” Nick moans when he’s finished, feeling dejected and weak. He doesn’t want to take it out on Joe, but he knows Joe will understand.

“Like what?"

Nick lets the rage flowing through him come out. “Like I’m your little fucking brother made of glass and I’m gonna break any second! I’m fine." He holds his head with one hand, upset with himself for falling apart like this.

“None of this is fine, Nicky. If she had been up with you—God, I don’t even want to say her fucking name—if she had been up with you, you might not be so sick right now! When...when are you gonna admit that? When you're trapped in a marriage for twenty years that makes you miserable?"

Kevin cuts in. “Is this really the time or place for this?”

“Kev, it’s just us. And you know him, right? This...isn’t right. It's all fucked up.”

“He’s sick, Joe. It’s happened before. He just needs some sugar and rest. We don’t need to drag-”

“Don’t say her fucking name,” Nick warns before he heaves again, Joe rubbing his back.

“I think it might be time for a trip to the ER, Nick,” Joe says. “I have a feeling you’re throwing ketones.”

Joe’s phone skitters across the coffee table, Sophie’s name on the caller ID. “Hey babe,” he starts, putting her on speaker. His voice is strained. _Stressed_. She can hear it through the phone.

“Joe? Did you put me on speaker?” she asks, nervous. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, Nick’s having a really bad low. Can I call you back in a little while?”

Nick moans, vomiting again into the basket.

“Of course. Anything I can do?” Sophie offers. She knows Joe has his attention completely focused on Nick, that Nick, and his diabetes, always come first.

“No, I think we’ve got it here, thanks. You’re the best.”

“Anytime, babe. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“Love you, babe,” Nick mocks with a small smile, and Joe smirks, pricks his finger again in response. “Ouch!” Nick pulls his hand away before Joe can get blood on the strip. “That one fucking hurt!”

“Give me your hand before I have to prick you again,” Joe demands.

“Okay, Mom,” Nick retorts, rolling his eyes.

“You’re lucky Mom isn’t here to kick your ass for silencing Dex,” Joe says, his playful mood shifting when the number comes on the screen. “You’re barely past 45. I think it’s time, Nick. I don’t think I can fix it this time. Something’s not...not right.”

It’s killing Joe that he can’t correct Nick’s blood sugar, that it’s fighting not only Nick, but him, too. He takes it personally, knows that Nick is feeling like absolute shit, _has been_ since early this morning, and he’s starting to get nervous. He can’t let Nick know, because that would make everything worse. So he offers a small smile and rubs his arm.

“I’m not going,” Nick states, shaking his head. “Nope. Nope. And nope.”

“Please. For me. Just. Humor me?”

Nick throws Joe a nasty look, but then he sees the look in Joe’s eye, recognizes it a the same look he had the day he got diagnosed and _that_ look puts anvils in the pit of his stomach. He needs to make it go away; he’d cross fucking oceans to make that look go away. To ease Joe’s mind.

“Fine,” he admits, and Joe takes a breath, an actual full breath, relief flooding him.

Garbo, JT, Ryan, and Kevin are watching from a slight distance, Kevin feeling like the only two that exist in the room are Nick and Joe. They’re sharing another private moment and it feels weird to watch, just like it always does. He’s trying to figure out how to butt in and break the spell, but he doesn’t want to disturb the fact that Nick’s agreed to go to the hospital.

“Fuck,” Nick groans, and Joe’s convinced he’s going to puke again before Nick adds, “Gimme the phone.”

“Hmm?”

“If you're dragging me to the hospital, she should at least know.”

Joe is mumbling darkly under his breath, something that Nick thinks sounds a lot like, “Not like she’ll fucking care, but, fine. Whatever.”

“I’ll call on the way,” Kevin intercepts, not liking the way Nick’s eyes are unfocused and glassy, a sheen of sweat still covering his forehead. “Feel like you have a fever, Nick?” He doesn’t want to put a hand to Nick’s head, doesn’t want to throw Nick over the edge and make him backtrack on his decision to go. Joe just grabs his keys from the table and takes a deep breath, holding it for a moment before he lets it out, trying to focus on getting Nick the help he needs rather than the roaring panic threatening to swallow him whole.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! We got such an overwhelmingly positive response on the first chapter and can't wait to post more! Thank you! Please continue to leave comments and kudos!

“This is ridiculous, Joe,” Nick says with a huff. “I told you I was _fine_.”

“Let it go, Nicky. We’re here and they’ve got you on the good stuff. At least we know it isn’t DKA (diabetic ketoacidosis). Just a virus. Sit back and relax,” Joe explains. He hates seeing Nick in a hospital gown with an IV tucked in his hand, hates the way the fluorescent lights make his skin look translucent, but he knows it’s the best place they can be, so he hitches on a smile and attempts to look cheerful.

Nick is just about to respond, Joe can almost see a bitchy comment building in his head, when Joe’s eyes shoot to the doorway. He knows she’s coming before she rounds the corner, can hear the tap tap tap of her heels on the tile floor, and he immediately digs his nails in deep into the palm of his hands his fists ball so tight. He doesn’t wanna see her. She _shouldn't be here._ Doesn't _deserve_ to be here.

Joe flies out into the hall before she can even see Nick, pushed along by he the echoing of her heels driving little spikes of anger into his brain. The phrase _Why is she here?_ Is all that occupies the front of his mind, it rings like a thousand alarm bells inside his head, louder and louder and louder until he can’t hear himself think for the noise. He catches up to her just as she passes the vending machine bay, and grabs her roughly by the wrist.

“Ow! Jesus, Joe, what the hell?” She asks, half outraged and half genuinely confused. She’s perfectly put together as usual, every hair in place, and Joe can’t help but feel utter contempt toward her because _how is she so calm right now_?

“What the fuck are you doing here, Pri?” He asks, his voice all venom that he doesn’t care to hide, doesn’t offer to take it down a notch, not even when he realizes Kevin is trailing just a few steps behind them and is closing in fast.

“What do you mean, what am I doing here? Nick wasn’t picking up, so of _course_ I came. Nick’s my husband. He’s my responsibility.” Her voice drips honey but her eyes are narrowed. She’s on the defensive now and Joe knows it, lets it sit a little like victory in his veins.

“What, like he was your responsibility last night when you ran him out of his own bed because you couldn’t get your beauty sleep over the sound of his Dex alarms? Like then? Or how about this morning when he had to have been driving half alive because he showed up to the studio nowhere near able to focus? Where the fuck where you then?”

“What?” she asks, confused. The genuine pause in her voice throws him but only for a second.

“He was just 45 with double down arrows, Pri,” Joe says, exasperated, and he’s not sure if she even understands the gravity of what he’s just said. “He could barely get words out he was so low. And apparently you knew he was yo-yoing all night, heard his Dex alarms going off, and instead of making sure he was okay— _you know how confused and disoriented he gets when his levels are off_ —you brushed him off!”

“I didn’t think-”

“That much is _obvious._ What fucking part of in sickness _and_ in health did you miss?” Joe asks, and its dead low and so dangerous that if he could kill her with the knife edge of his voice they’d be calling the morgue. “You really have no idea, do you? Of what could happen?”

“I know what can happen, Joe. I’m not stupid,” she says, and Joe hates that she sounds somewhat calm and collective while he’s ticking like a bomb about to go off. If she knew, really understood, she never would’ve written Nick off like she did.

“I know he’s independent, but sometimes he needs us. He needed you, Pri, and thank God Kev and I were there today, because he...he...” Joe struggles to push words past the knot suddenly in his throat. “He couldn’t do it himself this time because of this virus he has.” He shakes his head a puts a hand on the wall above his head in an attempt to console himself, to hold steady. “I really thought it was going to be like Denver on the solo run, when he was out for four minutes and my dad couldn’t wake him up,” he says, and he’s not sure why, why he’s sharing such personal, emotionally volatile information with someone that just failed Nick so badly. “God, he _drove himself to the studio this morning_ with his levels all over the place. Do you know how dangerous that is? What if this had happened in the car and he was all alone?” Joe bites his lip in anger. “We could’ve lost him and it would have been your fault, Pri. It would have been _all your fault._ ”

“Joe, that's enough.” Kevin says, finally stepping up, and his voice a warning, but he drops a comforting hand on Joe’s shoulder all the same. Joe just shrugs it off. He doesn’t like the way Kevin just sounded too much like their father, and he’ll be damned if he backs down to Priyanka now.

“If you don’t want me to get real ugly, Kevin, you’ll back the fuck off. Now.” He warns, almost growls, and there must be something to it, in his voice or in his eyes because Kevin takes one step back and then another, shaking his head at and throwing his hands up in surrender.

“Ex _cuse_ me?” Priyanka says, finally dropping all pretense of niceties for the stone cold bitch air Joe knows she’s more than capable of.  

“You. Fucking. Heard. Me.” Joe counters, and he’s close enough to her to be breathing the same air now, practically nose to nose. “You shouldn't be here. He doesn’t _want_ you here. Go the fuck home, and pick out your next vacation home, buy another dog, I dont give a fuck what you do, but if you don’t leave in the next five minutes, they’re gonna be taking me out in handcuffs. Is that clear enough for you?”

Something in her eyes flashes fire, but she doesn’t push it. Not really. Just turns on her heel and walks back the way she come, with nothing more than a “You’re gonna regret that.”    
  
Somehow, Joe doesn’t think he will.

X

Joe helps Nick into the house even though they both know he doesn’t need it, but Nick is feeling a little shattered from the last 24 hours, and he likes that Joe is there with a hand under his arm, guiding him to the guest room. Sophie brings a t-shirt and gym shorts to the door, and Joe helps him change, gets him under the blankets, before he sits on the edge of the bed.

“I added you to Dex Share,” Nick comments, all nonchalant like it isn’t the big deal that it is; Nick usually only puts Joe on when he’s travelling outside of the country, and the only other person he’s ever added was Jeff, his head of security. It’s a signal that Nick, the man Joe has always thought of as a man of steel, is worried. It’s a sign that he doesn’t trust himself.

“You let me know if you need me,” Joe says, not wanting to get up from the bed. It’s not a question, but a statement. “There’s a trash can right here in case you get sick again.”

“I’m okay, Joe. Promise,” Nick says, and Joe wants to joke, say he’ll believe it when he sees it, but he knows that’s not possible, hasn’t been since Nick was 13. The thought is a little too real right now, a little too raw. And Nick looks so small in the queen-sized bed, his face still pale from his fever, cheeks tinged with crimson. For a moment, Joe feels like they’re back in the New Jersey house, days after the diagnosis, having a similar conversation. He finds that he can’t shake the panic as easily as he could earlier, when it was an emergency. When Nick needed him and he didn’t have the luxury of time to think.

“Love you,” Joe says, getting up from the bed. He pauses, lingers in the doorway for half a heartbeat too long, then turns the light off and heads down the hallway. He brushes his teeth, pulls on pajamas, and slides in next to Sophie, but doesn’t sleep. He tosses and turns, unable to get comfortable. He’s still shaken up, can feel the pulse of worry still thrumming in his chest despite knowing Nick is real and solid and breathing right down the hall. He pulls Dex Share up on his phone and looks at Nick’s trends from the last 24 hours.

It’s full of jagged dotted lines shooting from the 30s to the 300s repeatedly, and seeing it, knowing that Nick was fighting that all night and day, hits him a little too hard and settles right in the space he needs to make his lungs expand properly. He puts his phone down and rubs his face, only half-relieved that Nick is at 80 and steady. He knows it won’t stay there for long, that eventually, he’ll start climbing or falling again.

Down the hall, Nick’s still too pissed off to sleep, is just considering the merits of throwing his phone across the room again because Priyanka keeps texting him about the Corsica house, and he honestly can’t even begin to start thinking about that yet. She’s sending him fabric patterns and links to furniture. His brain is foggy and every muscle in his body hurts, and the last thing he cares about is paint samples and themes. It’s not until he hears Joe pad barefoot into the guest room that they both find each other still awake.

“You’re not gonna let this one go, are you?” Nick asks, placing his phone on the nightstand.

Joe raises his eyebrows. "How long have you known me?"

“Right. Well, don't just stand there looking like a creep in the corner."

Joe’s in the bed before Nick can even blink, under the covers and head against the same pillow. He pulls his phone out and places on top of the comforter. “Dex says you’re in the 80s. Do you want me to make something?” He knows Nick isn’t low. _Yet_. But he’s afraid because even thinking back to 45 with double down arrows is giving him serious anxiety.

"I'm fine, Joe. Really. Just...keyed up. Plus, you'll burn the house down at 3 am, and I am not dealing with that so just. Stay here. And stop refreshing the fucking app. I’m _fine_."

It’s not until about 5 am that Sophie realizes Joe never came back to bed. Worried, she rushes down the hall to the guest room, only to see Nick and Joe sprawled and passed out.

And Sophie just kind of...gets it. She knows what Joe is like when Nick is away and he’s getting alarms from Nick’s Dex Share. She knows that he paces, not wanting to call and check-in too much because then Nick will take him off, so he gauges. Weighs. Calculates in his head when it would be best to text.

Nick wakes up to Joe poking him in the nose. Morning sun is streaming through the window, and the scent of french toast and eggs fills the air. He cracks one eye open and bats at Joe’s hand.

“Why is it that every single time I let you sleep in my bed, you wake me up by being an obnoxious pain in my ass."

“How are you feeling?" Joe asks, sobering quickly.

"Fine, Joe, but I know you already know that."

Joe puts a hand to Nick’s forehead, noting that there’s no fever, before he pulls his phone from the nightstand and spouts off numbers that are, indeed, in the normal range. But there's still a hint of something wild in Joe’s eyes, something that just one night of sleeping with his nose buried in the crook of Nick’s neck won’t shake. Because Nick knows the level of white panic that hits Joe every single time this happens, how somewhere, in the back of his mind, the fear of losing him is still very fucking real. But Nick is steady when he meets his eyes, doesn’t falter.

"Hey, bro. Seriously. I’m okay. Yeah? I’m okay. I’m right here." He grabs Joe’s wrist and squeezes tight. “Just a virus.”

Joe is fighting tears because fuck, all he could think about all night was Nick going to bed and not waking up. He’s not sure what he’d do if that ever happened, and not being there, that time in Denver, only fills his mind with the horror of what could be. Of what _could’ve been_ at the studio the day before. "I know. Love you." His voice shakes as he speaks, and he blinks his tears away, hoping Nick doesn’t notice.

"Love you too. Even if you are heavy. And paranoid. And obnoxious." Nick says, smiling, and it’s the one smile that his whole life he's only given to Joe, the one that says you’re stupid but you’re _my_ stupid brother all at once. Joe laughs, just a tiny rumble of it deep in his chest, and with that, the spell is broken.

Nick’s phone skitters across his nightstand. It’s her. Again.

"Don’t answer it." Joe says, and it's off how he says it, how it sits somewhere between a statement and a request, and is far too loud to his own ears.

"Can’t avoid her forever."

"Wanna bet?"

"Joe..."

“Nick..."

"I’m serious." Nick says, clearly frustrated with Joe’s uncanny ability to always voice the simplest solutions to the most complicated of fucking situations.

"And so am I. You don’t have to live like this."

“You mean stuck in a giant house with a woman who feels like a stranger?” Nick asks, and just the tiniest hint of real anxiety leaks into the cadences of his voice.

“I mean, it could be worse.” Joe says with a shrug. “You could be living with Mom and Dad. Or Kevin.”

Nick shudders at the thought.

“Honestly, Pri reminds me of Cruella De Vil. You know that scene in the movie _101 Dalmatians_ , when she’s driving away in the snow? And like the mirrors are all cracked and her eyes are orange vortexes of rage?”

Nick gives a small laugh, because while he can picture the scene vividly in his mind, he’s not exactly sure that matches up with Pri, no matter how much he wants it to. “How are we even related?”

"Well, you see, when mommys and daddies really love each other, Nicholas, they...."

"Shut up!” Nick says, laughing. “Oh my God, I truly hate you."

"You do not,” Joe argues, and it's all playfulness, a kind of open that few people get to see.

"No," he says, running a hand through Joe’s wayward curls. "I don't. But still."

"So..." and Joe pokes at Nick’s face again, first one freckle, then two, until he's traced the whole night sky. "What are you...gonna do. About this? About her?"

"Do you...really think it’s that easy? Just divorce her and be done?" Nick asks, emotion heavy in his voice. For a second Joe can see it for what it is, how Nick’s been wearing this indecision like a wool coat for weeks, and he wants nothing more in the world than to be able to lift that weight off his shoulders.

"I mean...more or less."

"Because I really look forward to Mom icing me for another six months." Nick says, bitter.

"Fuck Mom, Nick. You don’t have to do this." Joe says, stubbornly refusing to let Nick back down.

Joe can see the gears turning in Nick’s head, like they always are, his brain focusing on ten steps ahead instead of the immediate moment. “How fast do you think it’ll hit the press?”

“Well, we fucked the band thing once before, so, fast. You know the fans will understand, though. And I’ll understand.”

“What about Kevin? Think he’ll understand?”

Joe doesn’t answer, just grabs his phone and comments, “I think Sophie started breakfast.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too,” Nick says quietly, letting Joe help him up from the bed, and then down the stairs to the kitchen. He doesn’t have to ask to know exactly what Joe is thinking: That Kevin will react like their parents. Like their _father_. And that is a whole other set of issues that he has neither the strength or the desire to face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! So sorry that it took so long to get this chapter up. Life, unfortunately, got in the way. Thank you for your comments and kudos! We made this one extra long and have more planned, so stay tuned!

“Kevin’s been checking in non-stop,” Nick says a with a groan that precedes shoving a forkful of french toast into his mouth. “Why is it annoying when he does it, but fine when you do it?” His voice is muffled as he speaks, breakfast peeking out at the corners of his mouth, but he doesn’t care. Not when it’s just Joe and Sophie in the room, the three of them clad in pajamas and hair still tousled from sleep.

“Because Kevin is a younger version of Dad,” Joe explains as he spears a slice of toast on the platter in the center of the table and drags it to his plate, Sophie nearly choking on her orange juice as she tries to contain her laughter. “And you _did_ nearly do the noodle on us yesterday in the studio. So, yeah. I’m on Kevin’s side this time, annoying or not.”

Nick knows that Joe is still on edge and just using humor to deflect, but Joe doesn’t need to tell Nick what he’s thinking, doesn’t have to look him in the eye or put a hand on his shoulder to convey how deep his worry runs. Nick already knows. Regardless, Joe’s been hovering since he sensed that low yesterday in the booth. Nick knows he hasn’t taken a deep breath since he’d tested Nick and saw that 38 on the screen, so Nick continues with “I assumed Kevin would ask why I didn’t go home to Pri last night, but he didn’t,” just to ease the tension evident in the set of his brothers shoulders.

“You do realize that _even Kevin_ doesn’t fully trust her,” Joe jokes, and while Nick knows Kevin isn’t the best at taking care of the diabetes stuff, he knows what both Kevin and Joe are thinking: That Priyanka wouldn’t have been much help if there’d been another emergency last night. 

Something inside of Nick pulls at Joe’s implication, and he feels a sudden responsibility to defend her, even after the shit she’s put him through in the last few days, weeks, _months._ It’s almost _too easy_ to blame her for what happened yesterday, too convenient to half-joke about a divorce when really, he’d been angry with himself the entire time. Because despite the slew of Pinterest links full of patio designs and his and hers extravagant bathrooms, she’s also sent a few asking him how he’s feeling, if he needs anything. He hasn’t answered, hasn’t wanted to acknowledge that he’s the one who fucked up. He shrugs uncomfortably at the memory of what went down in the studio and makes a face. “She tries,” he says, and honestly, it's the best he has to offer in rebuttal. 

Joe raises an eyebrow, not believing Nick for a second. “Does she now?”

“Nick, maybe it’s not my place, and you can totally tell me if it’s not,” Sophie starts, putting down her fork and waiting for Nick to interrupt her. He doesn’t, doesn’t even try, rather just sits in the quiet, eyes locked on hers. She holds his gaze for just a moment, gauging him, before she looks away, criss crossing her legs to sit indian style in the hard backed kitchen chair and clears throat to continue. “I love Pri, you know that I do. But if I’m being honest, I don’t think that what happened yesterday was the first time you felt like Pri…” she trails, trying to find the right words and lapsing into silence when none come. 

“Almost killed you?” Joe adds.

“Jesus, Joe, don’t joke like that!” Sophie warns, shoving his shoulder away from her and immediately mourning the loss of body heat. Nick chuckles and looks down at his plate, pushing his fork around absently as he waits for the rest of Sophie’s sentence. “I was going to say _let you down_ , but sure, let’s throw in _death_ for good measure. This isn’t _Game of Thrones_ , Joseph!”

“More like game of _phones_ ,” Joe cracks in reference to the fact that Pri wouldn’t stop calling and texting yesterday, and Nick can hardly keep the coffee he’s just sipped from coming out of his nose. Sophie is pushing him away again, frustrated by his perpetual need to infuse humor into every tough conversation.

“Can we be serious for one bloody second?!” she says, clearly exasperated. Her hair is falling out of its messy bun, slipping down around her shoulders in a wild tangle, but she doesn’t acknowledge it or wait for Joe to get over his own joke before she continues in a rush. “What I was trying to say is that this probably wasn’t the first time that you felt Pri didn’t hold up her end of the bargain.”

“Maybe,” Nick responds, shrugging. He doesn’t want to give any more weight to his nagging doubt than that, because in the back of his head, he knows that if he does it’ll spiral out of control. _Ashes ashes, we all fall down._

“Maybe?! Nicky, come on,” Joe argues. “Stop lying to yourself. What happened yesterday was-”

“Was my fault,” Nick interrupts, pointing to himself. “It’s my disease, _my choices_ , that landed me in the ER yesterday. I’m the one that drove to the studio with my levels all over the place, turned off my Dex alarms, and ignored my own body. It was _my_ fault, not Pri’s. End of discussion.” There’s a note of sharpened steel in his voice that rarely ever gets used with Joe, and despite his words, despite the truth of them, Nick immediately feels bad for his attitude. 

“Not end of discussion. You’re shit at responding to lows, Nick,” Joe posits. “Especially when you’re on a blood sugar rollercoaster or sick. You’ve _always_ been like that. God, you’re like a sloth in molasses when your sugar drops below 50 or goes over 250. I’m not sure how you managed to hide how low you were yesterday, but you know that you can’t always sense lows or react appropriately. It’s why you have Dex in the first place.”

“I should have been thinking ahead,” Nick insists. “I knew something was off and let it slide because I’ve just been so tired lately. I should have-”

“Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve,” Joe interrupts, his voice every bit as sharp as Nicks had just been. “Everything you listed may be true, but isn’t it also true that she kicked you out of the bed in the middle of the night?”

“I didn’t exactly argue with her,” Nick defends, because he knows that Pri isn’t solely to blame for what happened. She has her faults and things between them are rocky for sure, but he still can’t justify using Pri as a scapegoat for all of his careless mistakes.

“Because arguing with Pri is like arguing with Mom; there’s no way to win, even if her argument makes no sense at all.” Joe argues with a huff and a massive roll of his eyes. 

It’s true, Nick knows it’s true, and finds himself flashing back to an argument they’d had a few weeks ago. It wasn’t until Nick and Pri were back in the car after dinner, where they were safe from paparazzi and fans, that Nick let his emotions get the best of him. “Was that really necessary?” he had asked, referencing the scene that had went down at the expensive West Hollywood restaurant ten minutes earlier. He started the car to get the AC flowing, hoping that having something to do that occupied his hands would lessen the spark of anger that ran rampant in his head. 

“Don’t they know who we are?" she asked, clicking her tongue in annoyance, and Nick knew then that the argument would be futile.

“Probably not,” he sighed, lifting a hand from the steering wheel to run it through his wayward hair. “And even so, that doesn’t give you an excuse to be a bitch."

Pri had whipped her head around from where she was looking out of the window and leaned toward him at that, her body language that of a cat about to pounce. “Excuse me, what? What did you just say to me?"

“You were a bitch to that waiter.” Nick repeated, refused to hold back, and the truth of it rolled off his tongue with ease. “You don’t treat people like that, Priyanka. You never know what is going on in the kitchen or if they’re covering someone else’s table. She was obviously overworked and being beyond pleasant. They work for less than minimum wage. She probably has a second job just to pay rent here in LA. She deserves all of the respect that you _think_ people owe you. So please, don’t do that to me again. _Ever_. Let me handle it next time.”

"She should be the one respecting _us_ . We're the customers. We’re the reason she even _has_ a job!" Pri argues, fiddling with the clasp of her purse but refusing to meet his eyes. All of the predatory crouch has drained from the lines of her body, leaving her looking quite a lot more like a spoiled child that didn’t get her way than the grown woman she’s supposed to be.  
   
“Are you kidding me right now?" Nick had yelled as he threw both hands up in frustration. He remembers wondering how it had ever come to this. How had he managed to marry someone who didn’t see respect as a fundamental rather than an incidental, didn’t _define it_ in the same way as him? He had thought back to the 2-bedroom rental in Jersey, how his family had eaten spaghetti and Ramen for months because there just wasn’t enough money to go around after his father left— _was pushed out of_ —the church. The food in his stomach had soured at the memory of Little Falls, made him question whether he had really needed to spend as much money as he had on dinner. He knew his account could more than handle the price of the bill, but even still, he always found himself thinking about the 13-year-old Nick that could only dream of getting out and what he’d think if he could see his life now. Would he be proud? Disappointed? Angry?

“If we are paying what that restaurant costs, I’m going to demand top service.” Priyanka had started again, all sticky syllables and whine, and it shook Nick right out of his thoughts, the flame of anger in his head burning hotter, threatening to morph into an inferno if he doesn’t keep himself in check. “I don’t understand why you’re so angry with me about what I said. There was a bug in my water glass and her service was terrible. It’s her job to serve us, hence the name server.

“Did your parents not...not teach you to respect others?” The words had come out before Nick could stop them. Part of him couldn’t believe what had come out of Pri’s mouth moments earlier, and the other part reminded him that he’s known she can get like this. That she demands— _expects_ —excellence to follow her wherever she goes, and that she’ll be the first to point it out when it doesn’t.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.” She bites with a roll of her big eyes, “How could anyone ever compete with the _Jonas family_." Her sarcasm had cut deep, left Nick reeling, and with that, any pretense he’d had about keeping his anger in check flew right out the window.  
   
“At least my parents, despite their faults, taught me to be a decent fucking human being. I don’t have a silver spoon shoved up my ass like you do.”

“Is _that_ what you think of me?” she’d asked, finally looking him in the eye. He couldn’t help but notice how small it had sounded, how wounded, but he’d be lying if he said he felt guilty for saying it. 

“Honestly? After that blatant display of affluenza?” he asked, jerking his thumb back toward the restaurant. “Yes. That’s _exactly_ what I think of you.”

"Maybe it’s best that you...sleep in the guest room tonight, then," she’d said, curling in on herself and angling her whole body away from him in her seat. 

“Gladly,” he’d responded, muttering, “It’s not like I haven’t been doing that anyway,” under his breath as he’d thrown the car into drive and pulled away from the curb.

Nick sighs a little more loudly than he means to at the kitchen table and bites his lip as the memory slips away. He knows that what happened yesterday at the studio was due to a complex combination of things. That yeah, Nick’s right that he’s to blame, but _Joe’s_ right, too, about Pri. They’ve been shit at communication lately, could win a trophy for how bad they are at it. He knows that even if he _had_ asked her for help instead of stealing away to the guest room on a gust of anger and stony silence, she probably wouldn’t have been able to help the way Joe and Kevin had. She’s always been easily overwhelmed by the vials next to the butter in the fridge and the box of needles with their orange caps, and she still, even after two years together, can’t fully nail down Nick’s behaviors that signal whether he’s high or low.

“I can see the gears turning,” Joe comments, his voice pushing in at the edges of Nick’s consciousness but only a tiny bit, just enough to get Nicks attention rather than having it land like an attack, and Nick realizes he’s been quiet for a few seconds too long.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, trying to regain his focus. He shifts his fork around his plate, pushing his eggs to the center in a neat, yellow circle. “I’m just…really sorry. For everything.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Joe says firmly, but Nick feels the guilt growing inside of him, consuming him. It’s always like this when his body has done something he can’t control and he takes others down with him in one swift, dramatic motion. The anxiety returns, the _need_ for control, and he spends countless after hours blaming himself for the fallout, convinces himself that if he had only _tried harder_ , he could have prevented the whole situation to begin with.

He knows that none of it is true, that diabetes does what it wants when it wants to, but he can’t help _feeling_ it.

He hates that he preaches on and on in the press about how he’s open and asks for what he needs when he needs it, that he takes the hard moments and days in stride. Maybe that was true once, he thinks, or that he’s strong enough to do that sometimes, but he knows that he’s been getting progressively worse at advocating for himself, that yesterday wasn’t the first time there had been real consequences for not speaking up. For not _reacting._

How does one explain the paralyzing burnout that is being your own pancreas 24/7, 365 days a year? This thought alone is why the guilt mounts the way it does for Nick; he usually plans ahead for every scenario, brings extra supplies for emergencies, asks for help, is flexible and doesn’t take repeated out of range readings so personally because he doesn’t want to impact anyone else or bring attention to the fact that this disease requires so much dedication and attention. But lately, everything feels a little too personal, a little too overwhelming, like his threshold for stress is much lower than normal. He goes through this sometimes, these periods of doubt and depression regarding his diabetes. “The cycle of grief,” he read in an article years back when the recording and touring had stopped and Nick had the first bit of real time to start processing his diagnosis. If Nick has to guess, he’d say he’s somewhere between guilt and depression at the moment, with a touch of bargaining and deal-making thrown in to boot.

His OCD tendencies reappearing are always the first sign that something is off. It usually starts with something innocent, like “If Dex and this finger stick are off by more than 10, bad things will happen today.” So Nick chooses not to act, which means he can avoid having to decide altogether, even though he knows he’s technically making a decision by _not_ making one. But choosing not to do a finger stick means he has control for the moment, and Nick _likes,_ control, he _needs_ it even when sometimes, his brand of control is exactly the wrong thing for him.

Even if he should have done a finger stick because his Dex graph wasn’t aligning with how he was feeling, which means he wasn’t acting on the right blood sugar numbers.

Even if it made him go so high that his meter eventually read HI when he finally forced himself to do a finger stick.

Even if his bolus and walk to lower his high blood sugar left him fighting a roller coaster of numbers and Dex alarms for the next 24 hours.

Control, or the illusion of it, is exactly what got him on the floor of the recording studio booth yesterday, why he silenced his Dex alarms in the first place. It wasn’t so much Pri’s discomfort that got him into that mindset as it was the burden of having to make so many damn choices in the first place. His diabetes nurse calls it “decision fatigue,” but Nick knows the true weight of the phrase, can feel that “fatigue” with every fiber of his being. It’s his responsibility to take care of himself even when he’s reached that point. There’s a sense of trust that those around him have regarding his ability to manage himself, and Nick’s afraid to break that, afraid to admit that he’s never felt this out of control before. Nick knows that he needs to get it together now more than ever, especially as  the band is recording and gearing up for promo and tour. He knows that he won’t be able to hide any of this come August, that if he keeps this up...

Joe narrows his eyes on Nick, shakes him out of his thoughts again with the familiar cadences of his voice. "If we’re talking, could’ve, should’ve, would’ve, you could've just called me, you know. I would have picked you up yesterday morning.”

Nick puts his fork down and stares straight at Joe, his eyes flashing a warning. " _Don't."_

"Nick...I'm just saying. I _know_ you..." Joe offers, gestures wildly over his empty plate and glass of orange juice. 

"Joe, enough,” Nick bites, but it's more exhaustion than anger, and he knows Joe can tell it. “Don't start with me. Not on this."

Sophie, who has gone churchmouse quiet, sits watching Joe and Nick go back and forth like a spectator at a very weird tennis match. She can’t help but feel like she’s in the middle of something Nick doesn’t want her to see, like she’s looking in on something long-established and worn in between the two of them, and she’d not been invited. If she’s entirely honest, she’s always watching them, sizing them up, calculating, and she’d be lying if she said that sometimes, in moments like this, she feels like she’s coming up short. It’s almost too intimate for words, their relationship, and even though she’s used to it, has come to terms with the fact that she’s practically marrying the both of them, sometimes it hits her hard and she doesn’t know what to do with herself in the moment. 

“What, you think I enjoy squeezing glucose gel into your mouth while you fight me on it?” The words tumble out into the open air and hang heavy, tears stinging at the corner of Joe’s eyes. “That I like-“

“Joe,” Sophie whispers, dropping a steadying, warm hand to his thigh. He stops and shakes his head, taking a quick, sobering breath.

“I fucking hate all of it, Nick, but I do it because none of this is your fault. Because you’re my brother and my best friend and I will never _ever_ blame you for it because _none of this will ever be something you asked for._ You know that I’m right: That you’re going to blame yourself for all of this when it’s not just your burden to carry all on your own. You know that you have people who care enough and want to help, but you have to go and be stubborn every fucking time we-”

“I asked you not to, Joe,” Nick says, cutting off his brother’s rant through gritted teeth. He’s close to tears himself, is breathing slow and deep to keep his emotions in check because Sophie is sitting two feet across from him and he can feel her eyes on him, sense the heavy weight of her pity.

He wants none of it.

So he clamps his mouth shut tight and sits stewing, even as Joe talks at him, prompts him with questions that eventually steer from the original conversation, pushing his food around his plate again, taking small bites here and there and focusing on his breathing to keep the emotions swirling behind the cage of his ribs safely inside where they fucking belong.

*

Kevin texts that he’s dropped Nick’s car off at Joe’s on his way to the zoo with the girls, and Nick thanks him without thought. He’s itching to get home and pass out in his own bed, far away from the weight of concern he can still feel rolling off of Joe in waves. For the moment, though, he and Joe stand in silence in the driveway as Joe pulls him into a tight hug. Nick feels the tears swimming up again, can taste the ‘thank you’ on his tongue, but he knows he can't actually force the words past his lips, not unless he wants the tears to fall, too, so he puts all of the things he wishes he could say into the force of his hug, and hopes Joe can hear them.

“Text me when you get home, yeah?” Joe asks as he lets go, hand lingering at Nick's wrist, and while Nick is still angry about breakfast, hasn’t said much since the argument, he nods, knowing that he owes Joe at least that after everything, that at the end of the day, Joe has never been _anything_ but on his side.

It’s while he’s on his way home that the exhaustion hits him. The gritty adhesive on his arm from his IV reminds him that he needs a shower, and he’s starting to get hungry again. He remembers that he was scheduled with his trainer for later today, but he’s under strict orders to take it easy, so he makes a quick phone call to cancel and promises to reschedule. He keeps the music low, lets the thoughts and emotions swimming through his head do their thing; he doesn’t have the energy to fight it today, not with this anxiety weighing him down, threatening to drop him too.

When he walks through the front door, Pri is nowhere to be found. Her car is in the driveway, but when he calls her name in the foyer, she doesn’t answer. He takes the stairs slowly, the difficulty of the simple task a reminder that this virus he has is not fucking around.

“Nick?” she asks quietly from the upstairs hall when he reaches the landing. “How are you?” Her eyes are guarded but her voice is soft, and he really, really hopes he can get to his bed without a fight.

“Good, good,” he says, pushing his hand through his hair as he tries to convince himself that that’s the truth. “I’m...sorry I didn’t come home last night.” He braces himself for Pri’s response, knows how she’s gotten in the past when he’s stayed out late or ended up falling asleep at Joe’s.

“I get it,” she answers quietly, finally reaching a hand out and taking his in hers. “Yesterday was a lot, and we didn’t exactly leave for work on the best terms.”

Nick smiles in relief, his whole body relaxing in increments. He’s just thankful that, for the moment, he doesn’t have to battle. “You came to the hospital.” It isn’t a question, and his eyes meet hers in a tiny show of gratitude.

“Yes, but showing up only made things worse. I’m not proud of how I spoke to Joe, and I didn’t get to see you or make sure you were okay.” She sighs and bites her lip as she fusses with the ends of her hair. “Lately it just feels like I make everything worse.”

“You didn’t make things worse,” Nick assures her, squeezing Pri’s hand in his. “I was super out of it and Joe…” he says, sighing as he thinks back to the argument he heard in the hallway, and how Joe was just protecting him in his own way. “Joe was...being Joe. He was in a mood.”

“I know that Joe’s blaming me for what happened. I guess I blame myself, too.” She concedes. His eyes follow the path of a tear as it rolls down her cheek, and he grimaces when she pulls her hand out of his to wipe it away. _Fuck._  
  
“I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if something had happened. I was so tired from filming,” she offers, trying to justify her actions. “I don’t even remember what I said or did after I went to bed.” She covers her face with her hands, sniffling as she tries to control her tears.

Nick shakes his head and gently pries her hands away from her face. “No, I should have said something before we went to bed. I can’t just expect you to be able to read my mind. It’s still new to you and it’s my responsibility to be open with you about how I’m feeling.” 

“I want to be there for you.” She says with a nod of her head, her resolve evident in every line of her body. “I want to help you with the diabetes stuff, but then I feel like I don’t know how and I’m afraid to be wrong, so I let you handle it,” Pri finally says. She wipes under both of her eyes and sniffles. “I should have been there for you, Nick, and I wasn’t. I know that you think I’m spoiled-”

“Think?” Nick says with a laugh, but it’s not malicious. It’s soft, and earns him a smile from Pri. 

“I know that I haven’t exactly been making things easy.” She says, not backing down and not letting him shoulder all of the blame.

Nick chuckles, but in his eyes is pain in the form of unshed tears, the kind that he’s felt stinging every day for what seems like weeks. “I haven’t either. Not even in the slightest.” Nick says, and there’s a relief in admitting it that he’d not expected to feel. 

“Guess we’re both guilty, then.” Pri inches closer, her face falling slightly as she continues to hover just this side of really embracing him. “I know you’re angry with me, Nick. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not angry. I just...didn’t think it’d be this hard,” Nick admits, and his eyes search hers, though he’s not exactly sure what exactly he’s looking for. “When we met, we just clicked, you know? We fell in love and I thought that that would be more than enough.” The _maybe that was stupid of me_ is left unsaid, but he knows she can hear it echoing in the silence. He looks down at his left hand. At his ring. The metal is cool against his finger as he spins it with his thumb, feeling its weight. “Loving you is easy,” he says, dragging his eyes up to hers. “It’s everthing else that’s so fucking complicated.”

“You know, your mother had everyone fill out a small card with advice for us at my bridal shower.” She offers, brightening as she tucks her hair behind her ears. “I pulled the box out last night and was going through them. There was one card in there that stuck out to me the most. It was from Danielle. She wrote, ‘A good marriage is one where each person secretly thinks they got the better deal.’ Do you think that’s true? Because I do, Nick, and I know I sent you a million links and pictures last night and drove you crazy, but what I was really trying to do was distract myself from everything feeling like it’s falling apart.”

It takes Nick a moment to get his bearings straight. _A good marriage is one where each person secretly thinks they got the better deal,_ echoes in his head, the words not making sense. He breaks it down: Good marriage, each person thinks they got the better deal. _Do you think that’s true? Because I do, Nick._ There’s nothing about love in there, nothing about communication or what to do when everything in your life feels like it’s going to shit even though it’s not. He parts his lips to respond, but can’t find the words. Does he feel like he got the better end of the deal when he knows he’s been a less than stellar husband? He hates himself for it, but he doesn’t think so, and he knows he’s waited a few seconds too long when Pri says, “Nick?” She puts a hand on his shoulder, is trying to catch his eyes with her suddenly worried ones. “Nicholas?”

He grabs the railing next to him and closes his eyes. “Just got a little dizzy,” he says, trying to come off steadier than he feels. “Think I need to lie down.” It takes him a moment to process that Pri’s used his full first name, that he’s not in trouble with his mother, that she’s said it that way because she’s nervous. He’s been out of it like this before, usually during or after a bad hypo or high blood sugar, but this feels different. It feels like the ceiling is spinning, the world caving in on him without his permission. He takes a step forward and stumbles into the hallway, feels himself pitching forward and then finally, his arm catching his weight against the wall as he struggles to stay upright.

“Oh my God!” Pri yells in surprise, and in an instant, she’s right there behind him, holding him up as best she can and gently guiding him toward the bedroom.

“I can do it,” he insists, practically growls, and Pri lets go, watching and hovering slightly as he uses the wall to navigate himself down the hallway.

“Do you need a juice?” she asks as she watches Nick slide onto the bed and curl himself into a small ball.

“No, it’s not...not my blood sugar. Dex didn’t alert. Think I’m...just dizzy?” The nausea from yesterday comes roaring back when he tries to open his eyes to look up at Pri, so he closes them and pulls his knees closer to his chest.

She sits on the bed behind him and rubs his back in small circles. “What can I do?” she asks, and Nick hates the way her voice cracks, is too attuned to the way she’s leaning over him as he tries to deep breathe though the urge to puke. He knows that stance. It’s the same worried, protective state Joe’s been in for days. He’s too warm, is struggling to keep his breakfast down, but he’s afraid to answer her for fear that it’ll come right back up the second he gives his body an inch of leeway. “Are you sure it’s not-”

 _Your blood sugar_ , he thinks for her. “S’not.” His words, they come out weak and rushed. He’s panting now with the huge effort it takes to try and keep the contents of his stomach off the stark white bedclothes. “Can’t be. S’the virus.”

Pri puts a hand to his forehead and sighs heavily. “You’re warm, Nick. Let me get you a wet washcloth. Do you think you can handle Tylenol right now?” He shakes his head ‘no’ and breathes in shakey spurts. “Is this what it was like yesterday?” He nods ‘yes’ and lets a slow breath out through his lips. “Still dizzy?” she asks, and it's too many questions to process. Nick knows she just wants to help, but at the moment, he just wants the spinning and nausea to settle. His body can’t decide if he’s hot or cold, is giving him both chills and hot flashes. He pushes his face into the duvet to block out the light and feels the whirling sensation slow.

He’s startled when he feels the cool damp of a washcloth on the nape of his neck, and he realizes he must have been out during the few minutes it took for Pri to return. The haziness of his short nap lingers, and he tries to speak as he looks up at Pri. “Shh,” she soothes, lifting and pressing the cloth to his forehead. “I grabbed a thermometer and Tylenol. Have a feeling you’re burning up.”

“For you baby,” he jokes softly but knows it doesn’t land, so he settles for giving a small smile to Pri as a thank you for the washcloth instead. It’s all he can manage to muster with the wooziness and the white noise still running rampant in his head. She laughs and he opens his mouth for the thermometer, but he feels something clunky enter his ear instead.

The question forms on his lips, must show in his eyes, because Pri responds with “Remember when Alena had that ear infection? Dani left this here.”

He blinks slowly instead of nodding in response, because nodding might just sent his stomach roiling, and waits for the thing to beep.

“101.8,” she reads, worry flashing neon in the dark of her eyes as she places the thermometer on the bed. “Do you think you can sit up?” Nick knows he has to, that even though he can barely stomach the thought of downing Tylenol the way he feels, this fever has got to go. A fever means dehydration, and Nick is not up for a second trip to the ER. _God, you’re like a sloth in molasses when your sugar drops below 50 or goes over 250._ Joe’s voice rings in his head like alarm bells because he’s feeling that a bit too close to home right now for comfort, and he thinks maybe he should have Pri check Dex, even though he hasn’t gotten an alert. “Nick?” she asks, and he blinks slowly through the gooey molasses in his brain, hoping she can see in his eyes that that’s a ‘yes.’

“You look about ready to pass out on me,” she comments as she helps him up, slow and steady, until he’s sat against the pillows and headboard. He closes his eyes as his body adjusts to the change in blood pressure and breathes until he feels his heart rate settle, thinking that if he could get paid for making people worry, he wouldn’t have to work a day in his life. “You’ll probably start feeling better tomorrow,” she offers as she places two Tylenol capsules in his hand and holds a cup with a straw up to his lips.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thinks as he pops the Tylenol into his mouth and sips water through the straw. Fucking hell. The studio is booked. They’re supposed to be finishing vocals, and will probably already have to re-record most of his from yesterday. He tries to run the track list through his head, but he can barely remember the name of their first single off of the album. Shit. 

His phone starts to vibrate in his pocket, and in a part of his brain that feels a thousand miles away he remembers that he forgot to text Joe that he got home safe.

“Fuck,” he groans, breathing through a wave of nausea so strong that he’s convinced the Tylenol is going to come back up. He tries to get his phone from the front of his gym shorts, but he can’t get his fingers to follow direction and close around it. “Can you?” Nick asks, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose now, taking deep gulps of air as he waits for Pri to fish it out before curling back into the fetal position.

“Your screen is cracked,” Pri notes, and Nick would probably roll his eyes at the obviousness of it if he didn’t feel so bad. He hears the phone stop vibrating. “Joe’s sent like ten texts, two voicemails. What’s your passcode?” Pri asks, tapping one long nail on the shattered glass of the screen. 

They’ve never shared each other’s passcodes before, but Nick knows he doesn’t have a choice right now, not if he’s going to make it out of this virus alive before Joe kills him for not texting the second he pulled into the driveway.

“0147,” Nick manages, surprised he’s remembered with his thoughts so sticky. He’s thankful that number is tattooed on his brain, because he isn’t sure he could muster the energy to use Face ID right now.

He hears his phone vibrate with a voicemail alert, and a beat later, Joe’s panicked voice comes through the phone. “Nick? You need to call me.” A moment later, he hears another one. “Nicky, you’re going high. I need to know you got home safe. Please call me.”

The phone vibrates with an incoming call in Pri’s hands, and she unlocks the home screen with a pinched expression. Nick knows she's struggling to not succumb to the desire to answer it in a snit, and gives credit to her for controlling the impulse. “He’s home, Joe. He’s safe,” she reiterates, calm and with the same lightness that Nick felt when she held the cool washcloth to his neck. She’s a bit more forceful with “I promise you on my father’s grave that he’s in bed and okay,” but Nick lets it go. He can hear spurts of Joe on the other end of the phone, can sense his older brother’s fear through the airwaves.

“Nicky?” he finally hears Joe ask, and it takes him one long second and then another to process that Pri has placed the cool expanse of the phone against his ear.

“M’okay, Joe. Just got...dizzy is all,” he manages to get out before he feels the room spin again. He licks his lips. “Have a fever. Pri got me Tylenol. Gonna...nap.”

“You’re 307. Didn’t you get the alerts?” Joe asks, and the pitch of his voice is off, too high with anxiety for Nick’s liking.

“S’not that high,” Nick says, and Joe knows immediately that Nick is not okay, because anything over 200 is never where Nick wants to be.

Joe sighs and takes a deep breath. “Nick, high is high. You need to split your correction so you don’t go low with this fever.”

“Okay,” Nick says so sleepily, so _nonchalantly_ , that Joe feels his controlled concern explode.

“Fuck it, I’m coming over. Pri?” he yells, and Nick squeezes his eyes shut at how loudly Joe’s voice pierces his ear. “Pri, dammit! Answer me!” 

“Joe?” she asks, pulling the phone back to her ear. She hears car keys jingling and a concerned Sophie asking questions rapid fire in the background.

“He’s 307. He needs to do a correction, but I don’t think that he can on his own with this fever,” Joe says, speaks like he’s talking to a kindergartener. Pri wrinkles her nose in distaste, but Nick knows Joe doesn’t actually mean anything by it, that he fundamentally just _doesn’t trust anyone_ to take care of Nick but himself, and sometimes, Nick has to wonder if Joe even trusts himself to do it right. “He probably has his alerts on vibrate, which is why he wasn’t acknowledging my texts.” Joe doesn’t add _because of the other night_ because he doesn’t have time to argue. “Do not, and I repeat, do not let him give himself any insulin. Do you understand me?”

Her voice is set and confident. “I can do it, Joe, I’ve-”

“Pri,” he interrupts, slamming the door to his car closed and starting the engine.  His voice is like a shard of glass shoved between her ribs. “You don’t understand. This isn’t like a meal. This is...this could go _so_ wrong with this fucking fever, and I…I had a feeling this might happen but he was okay after breakfast, so...” She doesn’t need to see the tears to know that they’re falling. She hears a shaky sniffle and a hard pound on the steering wheel.

“I’m his wife, Joe. I’ve done it before. If you tell me what to put in on his pump, I can do it.”

And maybe it's him second guessing himself again or maybe it’s just that Joe wishes he had Nick coherent enough to help him go over the math ‘just to be sure,’ but he panics at the thought that Nick was fine when he left, and that now, suddenly, he isn’t. He’d _never_ let Nick get in the car if he knew his numbers were off, but he’d only started getting the alerts well after Nick was supposed to be home. Then that text hadn’t come, and the real panic set in. Sophie had been resigned to spending the last hour trying to talk Joe down and out of his sneakers.

Joe backs out of the driveway, hits the breaks, and throws the car into drive. “Get him up and drinking water, and don’t let him fall asleep.” He growls into the phone and Priyanka’s waiting ear. “Can you do that?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

When Nick wakes, he can see through his bedroom window that there’s orange and pink streaking the sky. His mouth is so dry that his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth, and his head is throbbing something fierce, but he’s thankful that the nausea has subsided. Not wanting to move, he closes his eyes and lets his body sink back into the bed.

“Can you stop scaring the shit out of me?” Joe’s voice fills the room as he leans forward from his chair in the corner and rests his elbows on his knees. Nick turns to look at him, slowly, of course, because he can barely focus his eyes with the pain in his head. “Let me guess,” he says, and Nick knows by Joe’s tone that something’s happened. Something Nick can’t recall. He braces himself. “You don’t remember?”

“Some?” he guesses, lifting himself into a sitting position. His head spins slightly, but a moment later, it stops. “I remember Pri taking my temperature in my ear, giving me Tylenol.”

“You went up past 300 and weren’t answering my texts or calls.”

“I didn’t feel my alarms.”

Joe lets out a long breath. “Captain Obvious.”

Nick rubs his face and yawns. “What time is it?”

“A little after seven.”

“Jesus,” Nick says, sighing at the realization that the entire afternoon has slipped by without him knowing. “God, I still feel like shit. I was over 300? Did you...bolus for me?” His hand goes to his pump.

“Half. Your fever wasn’t coming down, so I was going to watch Dex and do a fingerstick before I gave you another. Dex was being weird, though. I was getting sensor errors and it kept telling me to wait 30 minutes, so I had to do a fingerstick. Plus, you fought me on the fingerstick and then the first bolus, called me an asshole and practically clawed your pump from my hands, so...” Joe holds a hand up to reveal a band-aid over his palm. “It’s been a rough couple of hours.”

Nick closes his eyes and lets the shame roll over him. He knows he gets cranky when he’s high. He also knows that while 300 isn’t the highest he’s been, fevers can throw his body over the edge. He doesn’t remember any of it, hates the way he has to grasp for memories through a thick, dark fog.

“Priyanka was having a heart attack when I got here, by the way. She thought you had passed out and weren’t waking up. I got you up and talking, but you put up one hell of a fight, Nicky.” It’s only then that Nick realizes Joe is holding an ice pack against his temple.

Nick feels his stomach drop, his eyes filling with tears.

“Fuck. I thought I was okay.” Nick’s voice cracks as he musters up the courage to look his brother in the eyes. He’s never had to defend himself and his decisions regarding his health with Joe, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling like he should. “I swear, Joe, I thought I was okay and then everything got cloudy and started spinning. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t...I don’t remember.”

“I’m not mad. You know I could never be, Nick. It’s just...if something’s going on, doesn’t feel right, you need to tell me. Need to let me help you before it gets out of control. I can’t keep watching you hurt like this. Can’t keep getting hurt like this.”

“Joe, I’m-” Nick starts, but Joe just puts a hand up, effectively cutting Nicks protest in two.

“We should test so we can decide if it’s time for the next bolus.”

“We?” Nick asks with a small laugh as Joe comes to sit on the bed, pulling Nick’s kit from the nightstand.

“Yes, we. Can’t blame me for not trusting your decision-making skills just yet,” Joe jokes, but Nick can see that Joe isn’t smiling as widely as he usually does, that his serious side is a little too prevalent for Nick to fully trust his humor. Nick doesn’t blame him, knows that the past two days haven’t exactly been easy. “Dex says you’re 220,” he rattles off as he looks at the graph on his phone. “Do you trust it?”

Nick pulls his kit closer and unzips it as a response. He draws a strip from the canister and inserts it into the meter before pricking his finger and delivering a drop of blood onto the strip. The meter beeps. “210.”

“Alright, so…210…we want you at 120, just to be safe. Divide...that’s…3 units,” he says, checking the math in his head again. “3 units. Do you want me to divide this bolus, too, or-”

“Just give me the whole thing,” Nick says, yawning again as Joe reaches for his pump.

“You’re not going to claw me again, right?” Joe jokes, pretending to pause before he unclips Nick’s pump. There’s a real, small hesitation, though. Nick can sense that something is off. Way off.

“Can’t make any promises,” Nick responds, the joke falling into the growing silence between them as Joe gets Nick’s bolus set up. “Why do I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me?” Nick asks with a laugh, hoping it will fix whatever this awkwardness he feels is.

“Nick,” Joe says quietly, calculated, and Nick feels his stomach drop again. “I wasn’t going to tell you this yet, because I felt like you might not be fully with it when you woke up, but you should know because it…changes things…”

Nicks face twists in confusion. “Changes things? What are you talking about?”

“When you were fighting me, Pri came over to try and calm you down. You swung your arm at her and said, and I quote, “Get your fucking hands off of me you fucking bitch!” and “Why are you trying so hard? You know that all of this is fucked. That we’re going to end up divorced anyway!”

Nick feels the panic rise in his throat, his chest suddenly tight as he tries to take a small breath.

“I-I…,” Nick tries, but his mouth is too dry to form words, brain too preoccupied with a sudden shaky memory of Pri backing away in shock. The way she’d let out a tiny sob and then ran from the room without looking back. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s not something he’d imagined, but an actual thing that happened, and suddenly, there’s no air. He feels panic setting in, a weight sitting square in the center of his chest that refuses to let his lungs expand.

“It’s okay,” Joe says so gently that Nick is sure he doesn’t deserve it. There’s suddenly a hand on his wrist, anchoring him down, keeping him from getting lost in his thoughts. “She knows you didn’t mean it. Not like that, at least. She knows you weren’t well.”

“I-I…,” Nick tries again, because maybe, just maybe, a part of him did mean it. The part that he’s been trying so hard to keep at bay. He instantly hates himself for the manner in which he’s delivered the truth, his feelings. Nick does not emote. Doesn’t share the blatant truth because he knows how sharply his words can cut. He practices his words. Says as little as possible. Keeps a certain demeanor. But this?

“Breathe, Nicky. Deep breath.”

“No,” Nick finds himself saying, shaking his head as he tries to go back in time and undo what he’s done. “No no no!” He refuses to blame his blood sugar for this, won’t even let himself use alcohol as an excuse when he gets a little tipsy and lets his mouth run.

“Sophie’s already downstairs with Pri. She’s got it all under control.”

“I didn’t...I didn’t…,” Nick is repeating. Panting. He can’t breathe and he’s sure he’s drowning, can feel his head spinning again just like it was earlier.

Joe puts his hands on sides of Nick’s face with a “Hey, look at me. Take a slow, deep breath. We’re going to fix this, okay?”

“F-fix this?” Nick says, incredulous. He pulls himself out of Joe’s grip. “There’s no...no fixing this, Joe!” he yells. “How the fuck do you fix something you don’t even fully remember?!”

Joe looks back at Nick with sorry, glossy eyes before he looks down at his hands, and Nick knows he doesn’t have an answer.

“How,” Nick starts, shaking his head as he lets out a small sob. “How am I supposed to apologize for something like that?”

“She knows-”

“-I wasn’t well, I know, Joe! But that doesn’t fucking matter!” He runs his hands through his hair and closes his eyes. “She knows I meant it. How could she not? I’m just...just so sick and tired of my health getting in the way of my relationships. I keep fucking everything up, and if it would just cooperate, I feel like I might be able to get some of my life under control. I just need one thing. One freaking thing to be stable and predictable.”

“I mean, you’ve got me,” Joe offers quietly.

“Not helpful, Joe. You’re like, the least helpful person I know right now.” And Joe knows that Nick is just saying it out of frustration, that he’s definitely the one person, if there ever was one, who is Nick’s constant. His best friend. The one who swoops in and saves the day no matter what. The one who always has and always will. “I’m...sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just so lost right now. My mouth is just running because my mind is a mess. You didn’t deserve that. I’m...sorry. I feel like all I ever say to anyone lately is that I’m sorry.” Nick lets out a heavy sob as his chin hits his chest.

“Nicky,” Joe starts, scooting closer. “It’s okay. And I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry that all of this is happening.”

Nick takes a slow breath in and holds it for a beat and then two before letting it out past his lips. It doesn’t help the swirling anxiety in his chest, not really, but he feels his mind clear a bit more than he expects it to, and he takes it. “Do you believe in karma?” The tears haven’t dried on his face yet, and he sniffles as he waits for Joe’s response.

Joe focuses his eyes on Nick’s. “Like...religious karma?”

“Regular old karma.”

“Honestly? I like the idea that if you do good things in your life, they come back to you, but do I believe it actually happens? No.”

“Really?” Nick’s shocked, feels his world shift again and restructure itself. In fact, if he wasn’t already so scrambled, he’d probably feel some kind of pain. Betrayal, maybe. But right now, it’s like he can’t feel anything. Like he’s topped out for the foreseeable future. “I would have for sure expected you to say you believed in it.”

Joe sighs. “If I believed in karma, Nick, things wouldn’t be the way they are right now. In a lot of ways. In the world and our lives and-”

“I’m not perfect, Joe. I deserve consequences for some of my actions.”

“Maybe, but definitely not some of the ones you’ve been dealt.” The words sit between them for a moment, the room and the house uncomfortably still. Joe shifts on the bed and licks his lips. “You know, I had a really rough time with karma and sin and God after you were diagnosed. And then when the label dropped us and shit went down with the church. I spent a lot of time wondering why all of it was happening. Mom and Dad kept saying that God never gives you more than you can handle, but it felt cheap. Like it wasn’t enough to explain the enormity of how our lives were changing. I kind of resented the way they approached the ‘why’ and I guess, sometimes, I still do. For a lot of things. It’s like I’m always looking for a reason why even though I know there might not be one.”

“Well, my immune system decided to attack my beta cells and-”

“But that’s not the real why,” Joe interrupts. “Why you? Why anyone? Or the how. How do you live with this? Like really live when it’s always there, complicated and frustrating and taking taking taking.” Joe runs his hands through his hair and sighs. “Sorry, Nicky, I’m just really angry that you have to live with this. It happens sometimes, you’re just not usually around to see it.”

“I guess the answer is that sometimes you do live with it, and other times you don’t, and you’ve just gotta do the best you can with what you have where you are. I know you’re going to say that it’s cheap, Joe, but I don’t know, that feels like the realist truth I can come up with. It just happens to be that right now the ball isn’t in my court and I’m not handling it well. Like, at all.”

“Guess we have to get that ball back in your court, then. Take a little bit back in any way that we can. Maybe that’s the how. How we win.”

“What’s with the ‘we’ again?” Nick asks.

“What, you thought that because I was frustrated that I’d leave you to do this all on your own? Never.”

“You sure about that?” Nick asks, thinking about Pri.

“You know you can spend the night at my house,” Joe says in response. It’s not really an answer, but it’s the best Joe has. “If you need to, you know, get away. From all of this.”

“Is that an offer or a demand?” Nick laughs.

“More like a request, but I won’t make you. Not if you don’t want to. However, I do have one condition.”

“Go for it.”

“Turn your Dex alerts to ‘Always Sound.’ I can’t do this panic thing anymore. I think my nerves are frayed beyond recognition and need some time to heal. So, ‘Always Sound.’ For me and my sanity. Please.”

*

Nick’s trying to shake the irritation from that morning’s fight with Pri as he pulls up to the gates of Joe’s house. The emotions from two nights ago linger, have been planting themselves deeper and deeper with every passing minute, filling him with more disgust than he thought possible. They’re grabbing food and then heading into the studio a day later than originally planned to get the album finished. Nick would rather still be in bed, under the covers, hidden away from the rest of the world, but he knows that this album isn’t just about him, and so he’s gotten up, showered, and left to grab Joe before he could talk himself out of it.

“You look...exhausted,” Joe comments as he gets in on the passenger side. “Please tell me you’re taking it easy.”

“Yes, I’m taking it easy,” he says, annoyed. “Just had another fight with Pri this morning, is all.”

Joe buckles himself in. “What about?”

“I honestly don’t even want to remember,” Nick admits, looking in his rearview as he backs out of the driveway and into the road. “I’ve started blocking them out.”

“That’s...healthy?”

“More like self-preservation. She can be sweet one second and driving me crazy the next. I’m losing it, Joe. Ever since I opened my big fucking mouth...”

“You’re dropping, by the way.” Joe offers, trying to stear the conversation from something that could potentially cause another meltdown. It’s not urgent, like it would have been back at the studio a few days ago, but Joe knows that Nick needs to eat soon.

“You’re watching my Dex graph religiously, aren’t you?”

“You’d be doing the same for me,” Joe counters. “Especially after the last few days.”

“Yeah,” Nick replies, sighing heavily.

“You’re getting hangry. Want me to drive?”

“I tested before I got in the car, Mom. I’m fine.” Nick says, and its a lot more forceful than he meant for it to be. Maybe Joe has a point.

“Just checking.” Joe relents, throwing his hands up in surrender.

Nick doesn’t fight Joe on it, not really. He gives in when he hears Joe open a small bag of skittles from the console, putting his hand out so that Joe can drop two in his palm.

“Satisfied?” he asks after he crunches down on them.

“For now. I’m feeling brunchy. You?”

“Sure. The Alcove?”

“Too public.”

“The Kitchen?”

“Perfect.”

Nick heads toward Silver Lake, windows down and music blasting. He parks down the street from the restaurant, careful not to be close to a fire hydrant or driveway because he doesn’t want another ticket, and the two grab a table in the back corner, near the exit, just in case. The waitstaff there knows them well, has let them escape through the kitchen a few times before to get away from paparazzi and overly eager fans. They both order pear pancakes with a side of bacon and eggs, and while Joe isn’t really in the mood for it, he knows the protein will be good for Nick, especially since the pancakes will probably send his blood sugar skyrocketing. Part of him wants to argue against the pancakes altogether, but he lets Nick choose, take the lead. He’s never policed his meals before, and despite the fear that lingers from the last few days of battling against a rollercoaster of highs and lows, he knows it’s not his place, especially not if Nick’s going to continue trusting him like he currently is; they haven’t actually discussed Joe taking over pancreas duty here and there for a few days. Not formally, at least. But Joe feels like the permission is unspoken, has been since he inadvertently said “we” the other night when Nick had his fever.

So he grabs Nick’s pump from his back pocket before their food arrives and double-checks with Nick on the units of insulin he’s about to pre-bolus, his thumbs moving rapidly. He’s lowered the number since Nick was a bit low earlier, but he’s worried that with pancakes, Nick might start running high later. He’s second guessing himself, just like he always does, but Nick doesn’t seem worried when he answers.

“It’s fine. We can always bolus again later. And thanks. For taking over the last few days. I really needed it.” Joe smiles at the mention of we, as if taking on Nick’s diabetes together makes them an unstoppable force, and he blushes, because he doesn’t really feel like he’s doing much at all, honestly. He wants to be able to take it away, to cure it, and a pang runs through him at the realization that this is the best he can do.

“I’ve barely done anything,” Joe says, clipping Nick’s pump on his waistband for easy access. He likes that he’s been able to take some of the burden off for the last few days, knows how much the constant math and site changes and Dex insertions drain Nick sometimes.

They eat, joking about possible lyrics for a new song that won’t make it on the album but might be fun to play around with on tour and plans for the weekend. Nick’s in decent spirits by the time they leave the restaurant, confident that he can keep rough morning behind him once they get to the studio.

“Cruella De Vil” by Selena Gomez fills the car as Nick pulls away from the curb, and for a moment, all Nick can do is laugh. Pri’s name shows up on the screen as his phone vibrates in the console.

“Did you do this?” Nick asks, tears in his eyes from laughing so hard, and Joe just laughs along with him, a huge smile plastered across his face.

“Maybe. You gonna answer that?”

“No.”

The ringtone ends, but starts up again, and Nick lets it play as they continue their conversation.

“We tried talking yesterday and it’s like we’re suddenly allergic to communication.”

The argument that sparked their twelve-hour cold shoulder game comes back to him like the remnants of a bad dream that he just can’t shake.

_“I think...we need to talk,” As far as conversation openers go, it wasn’t Nicks best._

_“Aren’t we doing that right now?” Pri asked with an attitude, and Nick felt the tears press harder against the back of his eyes, just waiting for Nick drop his guard and give them a chance to fall._

_“No, Pri. I mean that we need to talk. You can’t just take $500,000 out of the bank and not tell me!” he’d argued, voice simultaneously exasperated and angry._

_Her arms had crossed at the accusation. “I needed to pay the painters and decorators. You can’t keep them waiting or they’ll move on to someone else,” she’d insisted. “We wanted this work done before you leave for tour.”_

_Nick had rubbed his face and taken a deep breath to try and calm down. It didn’t get him far. “It’s not about the money, Pri. It’s about the principle. You should have discussed it with me before you did anything. That’s our account, not yours.”_

_“We did discuss it! You told me to do whatever I needed, so I did!” She’d been defiant, and the way she’d been holding her body reminded Nick of a four year old about to throw a tantrum. He’d barely contained an eyeroll. It’s a Herculean effort though, and quite frankly, he didn’t have the time for that shit._

_“You know what? I’m not doing this right now. I’m calling the accountant and telling him to sell the Corsica house. We’ll take the hit in processing fees. We won’t be moving in anyway because we’re-”_

_“That’s what you want, but I never agreed to-” There was nothing in her voice that even slightly resembled an actual submission, just more argument. Always more fucking fighting._

_“We’re separating, Pri!” Nick had yelled, his voice echoing through their entranceway. “This isn’t fucking working and you know it. Do you enjoy this? The lying? The fighting and the sleeping in separate rooms and the way we can’t stand each other most of the time?”_

_“Nicholas! You made a promise to me on our wedding day, and I’ll be damned if you don’t keep it!”_

_“You can have your promise,” he had said, pulling his wedding band off of his finger as he walked toward the front door. “And you can shove it up your ass!” He’d thrown it far into the front yard as he’d yelled it, and though it was definitely not on his proudest moments list, it had felt like his only option at the time._

Joe grabs Nick’s phone from the console and presses “End Call.”

“You really hate her, don’t you,” Nick states.

“Hate’s a strong word, Nicholas,” Joe argues, his focus on what’s outside his window as they roll through Los Feliz toward Hollywood. It’s not an answer and they both know it.

“I’m the one that fucked this up. You know that. I know that. Pri sure as hell knows that.”

“Takes two to Tango,” Joe says, and everything in his body language tells Nick he’s not forgiven Pri for shit.

“But it only takes one to open their big fucking mouth,” Nick counters, and his voice is a knifes edge, sharp and relentless. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, and he sure as hell doesn’t look over at Joe, just sets his jaw and keeps driving, like maybe if he drives far and fast enough, he can drive right away from all of his problems.


End file.
